


Mutually Exclusive

by boonies



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ, JYJ (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 11:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3648288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boonies/pseuds/boonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't know who you are but we keep running into each other on the street and getting into screaming arguments over the stupidest things and I'm actually looking forward to our next meeting because you're annoying as hell but gdi you're hot as frick and it's kind of fun to argue with you" AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutually Exclusive

"I don't know who you are but we keep running into each other on the street and getting into screaming arguments over the stupidest things and I'm actually looking forward to our next meeting because you're annoying as hell but gdi you're hot as frick and it's kind of fun to argue with you" AU

 

\+ "last night was supposed to be a one night stand but we drunkenly got each other's names tattooed on each other's ass cheeks so now it's kind of hard to forget you" AU

 

 

I had so much trouble picturing these two idiots _arguing_ so this happened instead, sorry.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Okay," Jaejoong announces to the room with a conspiratorial kind of wonder, "I saw it again."

 

"...the... yeti...?" Changmin asks, eyes dead.

 

"No," Yunho frowns, nose buried in reports, prompter scrolling through scripts behind him, "don't enable him."

 

"Who am I supposed to call," Jaejoong barrels on, oblivious, "the police? Animal control? A TV station?"

 

Changmin opens his mouth, eye twitching.

 

"Changmin, no," Yunho warns.

 

Changmin closes his mouth.

 

Opens it again.

 

Icy, Yunho says, " _Changmin_."

 

"Hyung, I can't—" Changmin snaps, clutching his head in despair, "I mean, WE'RE a TV station and WE'RE going live in ten minutes and he's going to break script again and ask all of fucking Korea to watch out for yetis stealing his fucking parking spot—"

 

"...that was one time..." Jaejoong defends morosely, wincing at the pay-cut that followed, but the yeti is honestly _real_ and roaming the streets of Seoul, having emerged during last week's heavy blizzard all white and fluffy and hunched over, feet strapped in cute sandals, and Jaejoong's job is to report the news and that's definitely _news_ —

 

"Jaejoong-ah," Yunho says patiently, leaning a tired arm on a wobbly prompter, "please just read what it says on the screen. And nothing else."

 

Jaejoong scowls.

 

"Our ratings—" Yunho starts after a concerned pause, and yeah, Jaejoong knows, okay, he's aware MBC's taken a negligible hit this week, weakened by the debut of SBS's new anchor but Jaejoong is beautiful and popular and without competition.

 

"Nah, he's better than you," Changmin summarizes viciously, shrugging one resentful shoulder.

 

Jaejoong bristles. "No."

 

"Yeah," Changmin insists and shoves his phone at Jaejoong.

 

The screen auto-rotates, player buffering obnoxiously, and then a short HD clip begins to play, SBS's new anchor fading in, calm and haloed by a bright blue screen, with a voice that makes Jaejoong sleepy and susceptible to suggestion, tone clipped, professional, trustworthy.

 

_For SBS News, I'm Park Yoochun_.

 

Jaejoong's fingers tighten around the phone.

 

 

*

 

 

Yoochun loves his car.

 

He loves his car the way normal people love women, the way small children love destroying furniture, the way dogs love to eat shit—his car is his pride and joy, his weakness and his reward, his car is his _baby_.

 

And it's been fucking towed.

 

_this spot is mine_ , the chalk outline on the adjacent sidewalk says, faded by melting snow and rock salt, arrow pointing at a car that decidedly isn't Yoochun's, _and i don't share :)_

 

Yoochun grinds his sandal into the smiley face, jaw clenched.

 

Not only did some dickhead get his car towed, the bastard also left a shitty passive-aggressive note, and considering SBS shares its parking lot with the victim-blaming savages from MBC, Yoochun's pretty sure the culprit is one of theirs.

 

In his spot, there's a double-parked car, same make and model and year as Yoochun's, only gunmetal-black to Yoochun's ghost-white, with an obnoxious stick figure decal surrounded by too many dogs, so Yoochun decides, yeah, this is the fucker, and snaps the windshield wiper up to slide his business card under it, scribbling, _compensate me at this number_.

 

He pulls up a fluffy white parka over his head and kicks a back tire for emphasis.

 

Then feels guilty because it's a genuinely beautiful car, a bro-car to his car, so he affectionately pats the hood and murmurs, "I hope you find a better human soon."

 

 

*

 

 

" _Who is this illiterate piece of shit_ ," Jaejoong roars, inspecting his precious perfect car.

 

There's a dusty footprint on the back tire.

 

Someone touched his car.

 

Touched it.

 

With their fucking foot.

 

What kind of fucking animal would—oh. Oh, god, the yeti. The yeti who's discovered civilization and who keeps stealing his parking spot and who touched his car with its awful sandaled feet and ignored his message and this is unacceptable, it's uncivilized, it's... Jaejoong squints at the business card bent under his windshield wiper... Park Yoochun.

 

His rage subsides.

 

And then ignites.

 

Outraged, he storms the neighboring building and shoulders past a hesitant security guard, flashing his clearance card to a crowd of concerned staffers, a nervous chorus of _Jaejoong-ssi you don't work here_ echoing behind him. With determination, he squeezes through a checkpoint and then two and stalks into the nearest open elevator, practicing a strong verbal beat-down, about how justice and integrity and common courtesy are building blocks of society—

 

The SBS newsroom is bright and modern, and at its center, there's a long curving desk encircled by elaborate cameras, and the yeti is sitting at it, fringe up, slick and coiffed, perfectly-pressed shirt tight across his chest, mic pinned to a neat blue tie, and a flattering suit jacket hugging his wide dumb shoulders.

 

And under the desk, there's ugly pajama pants and slippers.

 

Jaejoong stares.

 

"Jaejoong-ssi," a producer pants, catching up to him, security crowding behind her, "what are you doing here—"

 

"...car..." Jaejoong says, gaze fixed on the slippers.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Focused, Yoochun runs the standard introduction through his head, nodding at the prompter with distant, absentminded concentration.

 

He's still going to need to get his car out of impound after the second news cycle ends, but more importantly, he's going to have to hunt down the asshole who got him towed, and then maybe he's going to convince his network to run a report on the undisguised entitlement of MBC employees—

 

"Jaejoong-ssi, no—" a producer calls out, grabbing at air.

 

Yoochun turns his head, gaze drawn to a mess of cable wires littering the floor off to the side.

 

And the skinny legs tripping over them.

 

Slowly, Yoochun forces his eyes up until they're level with—

 

Fuck.

 

"Car," Kim Jaejoong says and he's clutching Yoochun's business card and so that must mean—

 

"Chalk," Yoochun grits out eloquently.

 

Jaejoong stares for a long moment, fingers flexing at his sides, then stalks off.

 

Yoochun fucks up seven words, one place, and two names during broadcast.

 

 

*

 

 

"No," Jaejoong says, serious, "it has to be that spot."

 

"WHY," Changmin booms, shaking with rage, two of his phones ringing at once, "WHY THAT SPOT."

 

Jaejoong considers, benevolent. "The spot next to it, then."

 

Changmin's face turns homicidal. "There is no spot next to it."

 

"Make one."

 

 

*

 

 

"I'm your sunbae," Jaejoong greets in the morning, parked one spot over.

 

Yoochun's pretty sure there was no parking spot there on Friday and the asphalt is fresh and a tree is missing, so he locks his car and tries to keep his bones from slipping out of their sockets in an embarrassing starstruck mess and valiantly reminds himself that MBC uses human interest stories to manipulate public opinion and throws celebrities under the bus to shield corrupt politicians—

 

"I'm your sunbae," Jaejoong repeats, less sure.

 

Yoochun steels his features. "Okay, but my respect is earned with more than just a title."

 

Jaejoong pauses, startled, features adorably blank. "You took my spot."

 

"You towed my car."

 

"You," Jaejoong starts, biting his lip, and genuine fear pools in Yoochun's gut, "...wear pajamas to work."

 

Yoochun wipes a speck of dust off Jaejoong's trunk. "You're doing a disservice to your audience by focusing so much on looks."

 

"What," Jaejoong asks.

 

And because no one can be born with a face that perfect and because Yoochun's eyes hurt looking at it in real life instead of on every screen Yoochun's ever owned, he sniffs and says, blustery, "I'm going to take your spot as the top anchor."

 

 

*

 

 

"Reporting live from the scene," Jaejoong says and tries not to turn his head and stare at the SBS van setting up next to him.

 

The protesters behind them kick off a chant and line up down the street, so he delivers his report properly, then hastily skedaddles over to investigate-slash-infiltrate the competition before Changmin can notice.

 

"Jaejoong-ssi," one of the rival producers greets, holding out a hand to block him, "it's a conflict of interest if—"

 

"Junsu-yah," Yoochun murmurs kindly, palming the producer's shoulder with a cynical sort of smirk, "MBC couldn't undermine us if they got the NSA involved, so."

 

Jaejoong bristles.

 

"Okay, but my report was better," he argues and sidelines Junsu to pick lint off Yoochun's suit jacket.

 

"Sure," Yoochun points out, nudging Junsu out of the way to casually brush Jaejoong's bangs back, "but you haven't watched mine yet."

 

Junsu narrows his eyes.

 

"Our ratings will reflect our quality," Jaejoong insists, straightening a crease in Yoochun's sleeve.

 

"Negatively, sure," Yoochun agrees, curling his fingers in Jaejoong's coat.

 

"Yeah, okay," Junsu deadpans, separating them, "not to encourage immature network rivalries but let's _all_ just focus on delivering quality content to our respective—"

 

"No," Changmin grunts belligerently and hauls Jaejoong away with a nasty side-eye at Junsu, "suck our ass, SBS boy."

 

Scandalized, Junsu froths, spittle flying, "YOU DON'T HAVE ONE."

 

"YOU HAVE ENOUGH FOR ALL OF US."

 

Dolefully, Jaejoong stares at Yoochun's disappearing sandals.

 

 

*

 

 

There's a major press conference and so the teams collide in the hallway.

 

"Two percent rating increase," someone taunts smugly.

 

Yoochun's elbow brushes against Jaejoong's, eyes accidentally meeting.

 

"You can't maintain that lead," someone else baits.

 

And then Jaejoong is stopping, turning around, and earnestly suggesting, "If I win this week, you'll go drinking with me."

 

SBS's staff freezes in its tracks.

 

MBC's staff busies itself by staring at the nearest potted plant.

 

"...sorry," Yunho apologizes, mortified, and pushes Jaejoong along, "really sorry."

 

"Park Yoochun," Jaejoong calls out again, undeterred, shoes squeaking against the tiles, "if I win, you have to do anything I want."

 

Yoochun's ribcage disintegrates, vital organs pooling into a useless mess low in his belly. "And if I win."

 

Yunho drags Jaejoong around the corner but Jaejoong fights his way back, grinning, "I'll do anything you want."

 

And before Yoochun's knees can buckle and split his skull open and bring him home to Jesus, he gets his shit together and sequesters himself in his office and pours all of his skill and time into a well-crafted, coherent, news item.

 

It's the right balance of impact and fact.

 

It's the perfect story.

 

*

 

Jaejoong's is better.

 

 

*

 

 

"No. No, I can't do that," Yoochun says, swaying, "I can't get it on my face—I'll get tired. Fired. They'll fire me." He grabs Jaejoong by the collar, lost, "Why do we say fired, hyung, did they used to burn people instead of giving them semblance checks. Severance checks. Hyung, why do we say severance—"

 

Jaejoong almost kisses him, sloppy and desperate and unreasonably drunk, fingers curving to cup Yoochun's dumb face.

 

"Ass," he breathes out, wrecked, "ass should be fine, right."

  
"Yeah," Yoochun agrees, almost chasing after Jaejoong's mouth, eyes dark, "yeah, that way—that way no one will see yours except me."

 

"Except you," Jaejoong agrees.

 

 

*

 

 

Hungover, Yoochun shifts at his desk, script blurry.

 

Cameras one and four whirr, test-focusing on him during a pre-broadcast check, and so he probably can't peel out of his chair and zipline across the street to the MBC building to murder Jaejoong and then hunt down a professional to laser off this fucking tattoo.

 

Because there's legitimately a real tattoo of a dude's name tramp-stamping Yoochun's back all the way down his ass like Jaejoong fucking cattle-branded him with his signature and it's uncomfortable and itchy and throbbing a little and this is unacceptable because now he's ruined for life, just completely messed up, how the fuck is he going to explain this to his future wives and girlfriends—

 

"Your face is really creepy right now," Junsu says in passing, concerned.

 

Yoochun pats his cheeks to check.

 

Oh.

 

Oh, his lips are... what is this.

 

Why won't they stop twitching into a wild maniacal grin.

 

 

 *

 

 

"IT'S YOUR FAULT," Jaejoong shouts in the parking lot, voice hoarse, back sore.

 

Yoochun, car door ajar, squints, hair shining in the bright sunlight, "YOU FUCKING BRIBED THE GUY TO DO US WHEN WE WERE DRUNK, THAT'S ILLEGAL."

 

"WHICH PART."

 

"BOTH PARTS," Yoochun snarls and slams the car door shut, rounding the hood to meet Jaejoong in the middle, their side-view mirrors scraping against each other.

 

Jaejoong takes a few combative steps forward, encroaching upon Yoochun's personal space, "DON'T YELL ABOUT ILLEGAL stuff in public."

 

"Okay," Yoochun says and slips his fingers under Jaejoong's suit jacket, gently nudging him to turn around, "yours probably hurts more, right."

 

"It doesn't hurt," Jaejoong mumbles, trying to paw at Yoochun's waist in return, "does yours hurt because I really didn't know they're not supposed to do tattoos on drunk people, let me see."

 

Yoochun automatically slides a hand to unzip, then freezes.

 

"...what the hell am I doing," he murmurs to himself, scowling. "Show me yours."

 

Jaejoong hikes up his shirt and loosens his waistband enough for a peek.

 

Yoochun leans in, eyes dark.

 

"It looks like it hurts," he says with a low growl.

 

Jaejoong twines their fingers. "It doesn't."

 

 

*

 

 

"Did you fuck that SBS anchor."

 

"...which one..." Jaejoong tries, feigning indifference, eyes darting to the nearest exit.

 

"Fuck," Changmin groans, sending a script hurtling across the newsroom.

 

"Jaejoong..." Yunho starts patiently, rubbing at his temples, "your private life is none of—"

 

"I didn't," Jaejoong grunts, pouty. "I only got a tattoo with his name."

 

Yunho stares for a moment.

 

"Changminnie," he says after a while, voice hollow.

 

"I'll start looking for replacements," Changmin nods.

 

 

*

 

 

"You're rivals," Junsu points out, one leg bent atop the empty chair next to Yoochun.

 

"Yea," Yoochun agrees, adjusting his tie and seeking the camera.

 

"We report the news," Junsu continues, script sticking out of his back pocket, "and they report trash."

 

"Yea," Yoochun nods and taps a stack of papers into a neat pile.

 

"You're going to be professional."

 

"Yea."

 

"...you're not listening, are you."

 

"Yea."

 

"Yoochunnie, you're going to get fired because of that dude, you understand that, right."

 

"Yea."

 

*

 

On a Sunday, Yoochun wins a broadcasting award.

 

On the following Monday, Jaejoong storms into the SBS cafeteria, flanked by sweaty security guards, and palms Yoochun's table with an emotional, "You didn't say my name."

 

Yoochun looks up from his lunch, ramyun tumbling off his lips. "What."

 

"In your acceptance speech last night."

 

Yoochun breaks out into a cold sweat. "...why... why would I say your name... we work at different—"

 

"Because I make you better," Jaejoong says, ID dangling from a hello kitty lanyard.

 

The guards finally stagger to the table, panting in distress.

 

Quietly, Yoochun slurps his ramyun.

 

*

 

 

Jaejoong wins a journalistic integrity award, which is so fucking preposterous Yoochun needs to aggressively shoulder his way past security to the crowded MBC lobby during the morning rush.

 

Jaejoong's boarding an elevator and so Yoochun slams his hand to the door, jamming the sensor, and opens his mouth to mock, but all that comes out is, "You didn't say my name."

 

"...my boss," Jaejoong says, eyes downcast, "made me sign a contract promising I wouldn't..."

 

The elevator closes with the saddest ping.

 

 

*

 

"Focus," Yunho snaps, pulls the hood of his yellow raincoat off, and gestures at the smoldering remains of a warehouse behind them.

 

SBS's van is parked off in the distance and Yoochun's calmly reporting to a live-feed and so Jaejoong sighs miserably, nibbling on his mic.

 

"Five," Yunho warns, waving four fingers in front of Jaejoong's face, then fades into the background, so Jaejoong delivers his report, studiously ignoring the SBS crew and the putrid stench of burnt rubber and Yoochun's watchful gaze.

 

Yunho signals him after the cut-off, relieved.

 

"You only mispronounced two words," Yoochun comments, stepping closer, sandals slipping on rubble and police tape, raindrops peppering his shoulders.

 

"And your forehead wasn't out of frame for a change," Jaejoong nods helpfully, umbrella in one hand, mic in the other.

 

"And you were only five minutes behind our report," Yoochun drawls, unimpressed, stepping under Jaejoong's umbrella.

 

His fingers brush against Jaejoong's mic.

 

Their pinkies tangle.

 

"...I'm so sorry," Yunho shouts across the site at Junsu.

 

"Nope," Junsu waves him off, huddling by a portable warmer, "I don't know what you're talking about."

 

"Yeah," Yunho says to himself, thoughtful, "that's probably for the best."

 

 

*

 

 

"Why do we always pick the same restaurants," Yoochun's section chief complains with a stuffy grunt.

 

Blissfully unaware, the hostess seats them directly next to a low table full of MBC staff.

 

"Yoochun," the chief falters after an awkward beat, "that's... not... our table—"

 

Somehow, Yoochun's halfway to claiming the empty spot next to Jaejoong, so he gives his boss a crooked sheepish grin and apologetically slinks back.

 

One table over, Jaejoong makes a tiny noise of protest.

 

Yoochun forces his legs to cooperate.

 

Tense, he folds himself next to a nameless coworker and makes sure his back is turned and his guard is up.

 

By the time the first appetizers roll around, Yoochun's drifted to an empty corner table, feet respectfully tucked above the cushions, hands resting in his lap.

 

"Jaejoong-ssi..." someone calls out with disapproval, "that's not our table."

 

Deaf, Jaejoong fills Yoochun's shot glass.

 

 

*

 

 

"Are you drunk," JP asks suspiciously, blocking the entrance, huge neon sign blinking behind him.

 

"Less drunk than last time," Jaejoong promises, shoving Yoochun inside the tattoo shop.

 

"I want one," Yoochun slurs, lumbering through the place like a wounded bear, "that goes down all the way to my ankle."

 

"...he doesn't seem less drunk," JP drawls, sliding ink supplies out of the way.

 

Jaejoong's mouth curls into a fond grin.

 

"Yoochunnie," he coaxes playfully and Yoochun perks up, turning to watch Jaejoong with a soft affectionate smile, "what kind of tattoo do you want."

 

"That," Yoochun says and points at Jaejoong, clutching his heart after a suspenseful beat, "here."

 

JP locks the door and grunts, "I'm going to lose my license."

 

 

*

 

 

"...just..." Junsu pleads, desperate, leaning against the bathroom door to prevent anyone coming in, "please don't get a neck tattoo."

 

Gingerly, Yoochun cleans around the pink edges, examining himself in the mirror, and offers a noncommittal, "Mm."

 

 

*

 

 

"Look," Jaejoong preens, satisfied, and tugs his collar down to present the tattoo, "they match."

 

"...Changminnie," Yunho says, hollow.

 

Changmin flags down a makeup artist. "On it."

 

 

*

 

 

Yoochun loves food.

 

Yoochun loves food the way droughts love rain, the way old people love to reminisce about wars, the way his boss loves ad revenue.

 

"We had some left over from our... bake... sale?" Jaejoong tries nonchalantly, dropping a tray of muffins on Yoochun's desk.

 

Sighing, the security guards look away.

 

"Bake sale," Yoochun nods, distracted, and cups a giant warm muffin. He inhales greedily and licks into it and asks, "Did you make them."

 

Jaejoong meets his eyes, anxious. "I made them."

 

Fuck, Yoochun thinks, because Yoochun apparently loves Jaejoong.

 

Yoochun loves Jaejoong the way broken things love safe sleep-soft memories, the way atoms love fusion, the way questions love answers—more than his car, more than food, more than is healthy, he loves him chaotically, unconditionally, helplessly.

 

"Any good," Jaejoong asks.

 

Yoochun's too terrified to reply.

 

 

*

 

 

"So," Yunho says, grim, "Dispatch ran a story on you."

 

"What," Jaejoong says, eyebrows raised.

 

"You're fucking the competition," Changmin sighs, done, "and Dispatch thinks it's fucking hilarious."

 

Jaejoong grabs for his phone, stylists fluttering about his head.

 

"I'm not," he defends miserably, bangs clipped up with a clothespin, heart racing, "I'm not."

 

The page loads and it's blurry grainy pictures of him and Yoochun, Reporter A and Reporter B, eyes covered with tiny black censor bars, and they're sitting together and standing together and there's zero journalistic integrity in the narration of this article—

 

"Break it off," Changmin says.

 

"Right away," Yunho adds.

 

 

*

 

 

"I'm not," Yoochun snaps, two minutes before air, batting makeup noona's hands away.

 

"Just don't acknowledge the rumors on air," Junsu begs, anxiously tapping a script to the newsdesk.

 

"I'd never do that," Yoochun huffs, offended, and eight minutes later, during a segment on plummeting cabbage prices, he opens his mouth and says, "Sunbae, I'll take responsibility."

 

 

*

 

 

There's a sharp spike in ratings.

 

That's all Jaejoong hears a minute before he's set to broadcast, so he waits until the producer cuts to a pre-filmed segment about probiotics and then frantically pulls up trending topics on a notebook used mostly as decoration, pulse medically unhealthy.

 

The cameras click and whirr and there's hushed whispering to the tune of _what are you doing_ , but _sunbae_ is ticking up at an alarming rate so Jaejoong clicks the first naver link and scans keywords like _Park Yoochun_ and _Kim Jaejoong_ and _nation's idiot couple_ , and so off Changmin's threatening _don't do it_ hiss, Jaejoong straightens his tie and gives a tiny obedient nod.

 

And says, when the feed returns, voice soft, eyes bright, "Please take responsibility forever, Yoochun-ssi."

 

 

*

 

 

"He got a fucking _raise_ ," Changmin complains, shitfaced, tree-like legs sprawled across the tiny plastic table.

 

"So did Yoochun," Junsu whines, tragic, rubbing at his eyes under the dim lights of an illegal pojangmacha.

 

"Let's... just..." Yunho mumbles into his soju bottle with a bleary-eyed glower, glaring at the matching cars beyond the plastic tarp parked entirely too close to each other, "...be grateful no one got fi... you know what, no. Fuck 'em."

 

One table over, Jaejoong cants his chopsticks at Yoochun's mouth, playful. "Say ah~"

 

"Ah~" Yoochun grins boyishly, eyes sparkling with too much soju, and wraps his mouth around a piece of meat.

 

"Say my confession was better," Jaejoong instructs, lips twitching, gaze warm, half in Yoochun's lap.

 

"FUCK YOU," Changmin roars, sending an empty soju bottle whizzing past their heads.

 

Pojangmacha ahjumma straightens behind her counter, reaching for a rolling pin, so Changmin hastily scrambles to clean up the mess.

 

"That wasn't a confession," Yoochun defends, careless, and moves his lips up the chopsticks, practically mouthing at Jaejoong's fingertips.

 

"As a reporter," Jaejoong boasts, hand slipping to Yoochun's thigh, "I can read between the lines."

 

"FUCK YOU," Junsu snaps, uselessly tearing his paper plate in two and starting for the other table with purpose.

 

Yunho holds him back.

 

"As a reporter," Yoochun chides, ignoring them, eyes meeting Jaejoong's in an intense all-consuming challenge, "your job is to report the truth, not read between the lines."

 

"Ah," Jaejoong nods appreciatively, "and as a reporter, your job is to _tell_ the truth."

 

Yoochun drops his hands to his lap and wraps his fingers around Jaejoong's wrist.

 

"Okay," he says and clears his throat, looking like he's about to enter a warzone, "I—"

 

"Need. To. Pack. Up," Yunho grits out dangerously, "and go home."

 

Changmin, in the middle of collecting shattered pieces of glass, looks up to glare in agreement.

 

Junsu aims cat-like laser eyes at them, concurring.

 

"I liked it better when he was hallucinating yetis," Changmin eulogizes, squatting behind them with a death glare, blood beading across his thumb, remnants of a soju bottle crunching under his boots.

 

"Oh," Jaejoong perks up. "This," he explains with a pleased smile, presenting Yoochun like a suitcase full of gold bars, "is the yeti."

 

"...of course," Changmin groans, " _of course_ he's your yeti."

 

"...I got extra insurance on my car because I thought yetis were real—" Junsu cries, anguished, cheek pressed to the table.

 

"...so you... watched MBC..." Yoochun and Jaejoong ask together, tangled atop a single plastic chair.

 

"Hyung," Changmin tries one more time, desperate, "he's the asshole who stole your parking spot."

 

Yoochun huffs and buries his nose in Jaejoong's neck, arms possessively wrapping around his waist, chopsticks poking at his jaw. "Well, he stole my heart, so it works out."

 

There a long awkward pause.

 

"No," Yunho says, grossed out, rising, chair scraping against the ground, "no, no. No."

 

"No," Junsu agrees and follows him up and then they're unbraiding a stubborn clingy tangle of limbs.

 

"You're infringing upon our rights," Jaejoong protests drunkenly as he's unceremoniously lugged away, arms reaching out for Yoochun, "I'll draft a report, I'll go on air about this, I'll address the national assembly—"

 

Yoochun struggles, hand outstretched dramatically. "We'll make it a joint effort—a collaboration—sunbae, no, don't go—you can't go without me—"

 

"Yoochunnie," Jaejoong rasps out as though hellhounds are dragging him off to the abyss, "I'll wait for you forever—"

 

"Hyung," Yoochun replies, equally despairing, fingers grabbing at air like his lifeboat is sinking, "I'll wait longer than that—"

 

Several soju bottles flit by their heads, tearing through the tarp.

 

Pojangmacha ahjumma bills them double.


End file.
